


parallax

by heartsighed



Category: NCT (Band), WAYV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Getting Back Together, M/M, Minor Character Death, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-10 16:36:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18664207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsighed/pseuds/heartsighed
Summary: The catch is this: Crimson Typhoon takes three pilots to operate.





	parallax

They say that the eye of the storm is where it’s most calm. It passes over in only a moment, though. Only a moment.

 

\--

 

The summons comes for Doyoung on a rainy day in May, shoved under the crack of his door in a thick manila envelope. It’s only been three weeks since Huo Da landed in Shanghai, ten since the Nagasaki Shatterdome announced its impending shutdown. He can’t say he’s not expecting it.

“Stay safe,” Donghyun says as he hugs him goodbye, ruffling his hair like he’s nineteen again, fresh-faced and chomping at the bit to jump into a Jaeger rather than twenty-nine and semi-retired. “Call me when you get there, yeah?”

The trip from Nagasaki to Hong Kong is ten hours, including the three stops they make along the way. The last leg is by helicopter, and Doyoung spends most of it staring out the window, his hands folded in his lap.

There’s an old face waiting on the landing strip when they touch down. His uniform jacket fits him like a glove, lapel ironed and worn buttons shined to perfection, just like Doyoung remembers. A neat seam seals his left sleeve shut just beneath the shoulder.

“Hello, stranger,” Ten says as they embrace, his breath hot against the thin skin of Doyoung’s throat. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

 

\--

 

If it had been any other Jaeger, they probably would have decommissioned it the moment it sank into the ocean. Crimson Typhoon, though, is special.

The day after the Shanghai breach, the PPDC sends a search team to fish her remains out of the sea. They dredge her up from where she rests a mere mile off the coast, her bright red paint still visible from land. It takes only a few more hours to find the corroded conn-pod too, all three pilots entombed inside.

In the week following, Crimson Typhoon is rebuilt with whatever pieces the Shatterdome can scrape together, her surface repainted a neutral gray to cover the scratches that tore her skin apart. By the time they finish, there is no trace of the saturated color that had earned her the moniker ‘Crimson.’

This is the Jaeger that greets Doyoung when he lands in Hong Kong. The Crimson Typhoon that he knew was the pride of a nation—the fastest, strongest, biggest Jaeger built yet, capable of housing _three_ pilots—but now she looks almost shabby standing here in the hangar. If not for the light of her single eye, burning defiantly against the dull gray, he would not have recognized her at all.

Nevertheless, Ten’s gaze is filled with a familiar fondness as he stares up at her. It’s the same one that used to light up his face when he looked at Nova Hyperion.

“She looks different from before, I know,” Ten says before Doyoung can speak. “But she can still put up a good fight, which is all that really matters. Besides, red never suited us anyway, right?”

Doyoung thinks of the screech of tearing metal, the ear-splitting shrieks of the alarm system, the sharp cold of seawater flooding into the conn-pod, and red—bright, blooming red—pouring down Ten’s white suit, pooling around them.

“Yeah,” Doyoung says, tearing his eyes away from Ten and turning back to the Jaeger. “This is better.”

 

The catch is this: Crimson Typhoon takes three pilots to operate.

By the time Doyoung lands in Hong Kong, the mess of emotions has already begun to congeal in the pit of his belly, growing colder by the second. It’s been a long time since he drifted with Ten. It’s been even longer since he drifted with a stranger. Doyoung doesn’t have the courage to even bring it up until Ten has shown him the entire base and dropped him off in front of his new quarters.

“You’ve drifted with him, already?” Doyoung says and means: sparred with him, fought with him, went into the mind-meld and let his brain be opened up and picked apart thoroughly by someone Doyoung has never even met before.

Ten nods.

“What did you think?”

Ten only has to ponder the question for a moment.

“He’s perfect,” he says, his voice strong with a conviction that shakes Doyoung to the very core, “I couldn’t imagine us partnering with anyone else.”

 

\--

 

Doyoung had always thought the most unsettling part of the drift would be the knowledge that there would be someone else in your brain, someone who could see every humiliating, private detail of your life you could remember. He’s wrong, though—the sensation of someone else’s memories in your own head is far more disconcerting.

It’s hard to distinguish between the two of them sometimes. Doyoung will look back on this moment or that time and have to think, was he standing on the right or the left? Was he the one who had been twirling his pen in his fingers, or had that been Ten? And then he remembers, Ten can’t twirl pens, and they are separate again.

At night, the line that divides them becomes even more hazy. Doyoung will dream of Bangkok in such vivid color that after he wakes, it takes him a second to remember his own name. He hates those brief moments, where everything feels wrong and he is drowning in panic, utterly alienated from himself. Even after he retires, the dreams follow him to Nagasaki, haunting every corner of his room at night.

The worst one by far is also the one that comes to him the most. It always starts the same way:

He’s floating on a sea of ice.

It’s so cold. He would shiver, but he can’t move, can’t even open his mouth to speak. Numbness seeps from the outside in, sitting so heavy in his chest that he can barely breathe. He knows that something’s missing—the emptiness cuts sharper than the pain—but he no longer has the energy to open his eyes and check.

Above him, someone starts to cry.

 

\--

 

They meet the new recruit in the combat room early the next morning, while it’s still empty. The first thing Doyoung notices is the blue jacket folded neatly at the edge of the mat.

“You’re kidding me,” he mutters under his breath, “After all the money the Corps have poured into the recruiting program, you chose a _J-tech?_ ”

Ten’s expression doesn’t falter. “He’s perfectly qualified for the position. He graduated from the academy, same as you and me, and he’s been at this Shatterdome longer than both of us combined. Why don’t you just give him a chance and see?”

Twenty minutes later, Doyoung is lying flat on his back, the wooden end of the staff cool against his sweat-slick throat. He grasps the warm hand offered to him and lets it haul him to his feet.

“Qian Kun,” the man says, eyes crinkling with a smile. His grip is firm around Doyoung’s fingers, thick calluses pressing into his palms. Maybe a little too firm. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Ranger Kim.”

 

They eat together in the canteen afterwards. Just the two of them, because Ten had an appointment with Dr. Seo. Kun had been kind enough to extend the invitation as they were pulling their shoes back on, and Doyoung was too polite to refuse.

Doyoung picks at his overcooked noodles, careful not to sever them with his chopsticks, and studies Kun while he eats. He has an angular jaw, soft lips, and dark eyebrows—objectively, a handsome face. Strong hands, too, Doyoung notices again as he picks up an overripe apple, rubbing absently at a spot on its skin.

“The repairs are scheduled to be finished next month,” Kun says. “We should be holding our first drift soon after that.”

“That’s earlier than I expected,” Doyoung notes, his mouth dry.

“The faster we finish, the faster we get another active Jaeger back on the roster,” Kun shrugs. “We should work on improving our compatibility before then. Are you available to meet at the same time tomorrow?”

Their first and only bout had ended 4-2 in Kun’s favor. Doyoung ignores the prickle of annoyance at the implication that he needs more practice. He knows that Kun is right.

“I’m available,” he says, picking up a lump of noodles.

“Wonderful. I look forward to getting to know you better,” Kun pockets the apple and stands. “I have work now, but I’ll see you there, Ranger Kim.”

“Doyoung,” he corrects, “Just Doyoung is fine.”

Kun nods, “Doyoung, then.” A smile flashes over his lips, tight and brief. “It was nice meeting you, Doyoung.”

If the statement is a lie, he’s too polite to show it. They shake hands before he leaves.

 

\--

 

Between the two of them, Ten was always the impulsive one in a fight. He made decisions on instinct, only barely allowing Doyoung to reign him back. Maybe it’s because of this that Doyoung doesn’t think much of it the first time they step out of their suits and Ten says, “We should visit Japan sometime.”

Doyoung’s still trembling a little, his whole head is buzzing, and he’s only half paying attention to the words that leave Ten’s mouth. He sighs in relief when Ten pulls him close, hooking a chin over his shoulder and running light fingers through his hair.

“When everything’s over,” Ten clarifies, “How does that sound?”

“You’ve never been?” Doyoung asks, muffled, into the crook of his neck.

“No,” Ten says, “No, I’ve never been.”

Doyoung clings to this memory five months later as he sits in the sterile infirmary, watching Ten’s chest rise and fall in his sleep. His left shoulder and chest are wrapped in swathes of white bandages, and he would look peaceful if not for the bruises blooming all over his skin.

By the time Taeyong contacts him to tell him that Ten’s woken up, Doyoung is already halfway across the world in Nagasaki, in a place that belongs to Doyoung alone, untouched by their shared memories.

He keeps expecting someone to chase him down, dreading it months—years, even—after he leaves, but it never happens. No one ever comes after him.

 

\--

 

The Nagasaki Shatterdome is set to close mid-September. Donghyun has already been approved for a transfer to Hong Kong’s K-science branch in August, giving him enough time to wrap up his projects and move all his samples before the shutdown date.

They both know that Doyoung could very well be dead by August. Nevertheless, when Donghyun video calls Doyoung in the evening after work, he’s all smiles and shit-eating grins in the grainy computer screen.

“Tell me the food’s better in Hong Kong,” Donghyun says, his voice teasing through the tinny speakers of Doyoung’s laptop. “If my little brother’s going to be a hotshot pilot again, he better be getting fed well.”

“The food’s fine,” Doyoung sighs.

“What about the other pilots, are you getting along with them? Isn’t Shaolin Rogue in Hong Kong right now? Can you get me their autographs—”

Doyoung groans. “ _No._ I just got here yesterday, I’m _not_ asking another pilot to sign something for my idiot older brother.”

Donghyun laughs. “Whatever. Just wait ‘till I get there in three months and ask for them myself. I’m going to embarrass the _hell_ out of you.”

Doyoung bites back a protest. Just the thought of Donghyun in Hong Kong both excites and terrifies him. If it were up to him, he would ship his brother off to the middle of the largest landmass he could find—somewhere the Kaiju could never reach—but he knows Donghyun would never let him.

An unfamiliar well of loneliness pools in his chest at the reminder of the distance between them. Over the course of ten years, Donghyun had followed him from Seoul to Vladivostok and then from Vladivostok to Nagasaki, never more than an arms’ length away. Doyoung would never admit it to Donghyun’s face, for fear of both embarrassing himself and worrying his brother, but he misses Donghyun terribly.

Suddenly, his single room feels too empty, too silent.

“I’m proud of you, Doyoung,” Donghyun says right before they end the call, “I’ll see you in August, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Doyoung says, running his fingers over his brother’s blurry image on the screen. He musters a smile wide enough for Donghyun to see through the grainy pixels. “See you then.”

 

\--

 

In the morning, Doyoung arrives at the combat room ten minutes before their scheduled time only to find Kun already stretching inside, his shoes sitting neatly on the edge of the mat. He looks up when Doyoung enters, bowing politely.

“Good morning,” he says. “You’re early.”

“You are too,” Doyoung points out, sitting down to unlace his boots and shed his jacket.

“I ended my run early,” Kun says. “It was a bit cold outside, so I ran faster than normal.”

Doyoung looks at him again, this time noticing the faint sheen of sweat on his neck and arms. “You run?”

“8 kilometers every morning,” Kun says, and Doyoung bites down the urge to say, _Of course you do_. It wouldn’t do to alienate his co-pilot this early on out of petty jealousy, especially given the less-than-stellar first impression he had made just yesterday.

“That’s very admirable,” he says instead.

Kun raises an eyebrow, his lips quirking in clear disbelief. “Thank you.”

They spar for two hours in total. Kun gains the upper hand for a while, then Doyoung, then Kun again. He’s slower to pick up on his opponent’s weaknesses, Doyoung notes, though his mastery of the basic forms more than makes up for the difference. It’s clear that he’s practiced them for countless hours.

Doyoung finishes the two hours with far more bruises than he had entered with. He’s satisfied to see that Kun has just as many when he lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow. They’re more compatible than Doyoung had initially thought.

“Do you want tea?” Kun asks as they’re pulling on their boots.

Doyoung pauses. “Pardon?”

“Tea,” Kun repeats. “Would you like some? I have a pretty big collection in my room.”

His expression is completely neutral, so much so that it’s impossible to tell if he’s offering out of courtesy or genuine desire. He finishes typing his laces and stands, waiting patiently for Doyoung’s answer.

“Maybe next time,” Doyoung says, arranging his face in an expression reminiscent of regret. “I think I’d like a shower right now.”

Kun nods, looking neither disappointed or relieved. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

 

After breakfast, Doyoung wanders the base, eventually retreating to the most secluded place he can think of outside of his room. Ten’s already sitting on the catwalk when he gets there, arm propped on the guardrail and legs dangling off the edge into free space.

“Did you eat already?” Doyoung asks, taking a seat next to him.

Ten nods, still staring down into the hangar. Doyoung follows his gaze and spots Kun standing on the ground, away from the cheering crowd. He’s partially hidden in the shadow cast by Crimson, his brows drawn low over his face as he pores over a large sheet of drafting paper.

“He’s retiring tomorrow,” Ten says.

“From J-tech?”

Ten nods again. As they watch, Kun waves at one of the engineers, barking out an order that is lost in the sea of sound.

“He’s been on Crimson’s crew since he was twenty,” Ten says.

Doyoung does the mental math. “Nine years is a long time.”

“It is.”

“Does he regret it?”

Ten rests his cheek on his arm. “No. Kun would do anything if he thought it was for the greater good.”

“So this is the greater good, then.”

“We’re going to save people, Doyoung,” Ten says. “That’s all he’s ever wanted to do.”

Doyoung looks up towards Crimson. From this angle, it looks almost like she’s staring at them, her core glowing like a giant yellow eye.

“I see,” he says. It’s been a long time since Doyoung thought about the greater good.

 

\--

 

They say that the dead live on in the memories of the living. At age nineteen, fresh out of Jaeger academy and high on the adrenaline of his first successful drift, Doyoung learns that Ten is obsessed with staying alive.

They have similar stories—more similar than Doyoung is comfortable with in the beginning, when he’s still searching for reasons to hate Ten more than he should—but the difference between them is that Doyoung has Donghyun, while Ten has only the six days after Bangkok fell, when he had watched as search-and-rescue unearthed every single person he had ever cared for, one by one, from under the mountains of rubble.

If there is a star in the Milky Way for every neuron in the human brain, then Ten holds entire universes in his head. He is the only evidence that those people were alive once, and he knows that when he dies, all those lives will end with him. It’s not until Doyoung and Nova come along that the weight of that fear begins to ease. There is something precious in the knowledge that of all the people in the world, only Doyoung can share that burden with him. That Ten’s universes will live on in him too, preserved in perfect replica inside of his brain.

Sometimes, in the brief flash when the drift first connects—before the fight takes precedence above all else—Doyoung sees himself, too. He is different from how he remembers—his features look the same as they always do reflected back in the mirror, but there’s something about him that makes him so much more vibrant through Ten’s eyes. It comes as a source of comfort, when times are bad and Doyoung can barely get out of bed, that this will be the version of him that lives on.

He never really considers the possibility that Ten could die first until it’s nearly too late.

 

\--

 

Their first drift test falls on an average day in mid-June—not too hot, not too cold. It’s early enough that there’s still a thin film of mist covering the base when they walk out into the hangar, drivesuits on and helmets tucked under their arms.

Doyoung straps himself into his rig and watches as Kun and Ten do the same to his left. Their movements are eerily synchronized, and Doyoung wonders how many times they’ve drifted without him.

Ten turns to look at him right before the initiation sequence starts.

“Don’t lose yourself,” he says. Like Doyoung doesn’t know better.

_Prepare for neural handshake, starting in fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…_

One of the first things they teach in the academy is that it’s too easy to lose yourself to the drift.

When he first started with Nova, Doyoung could never completely separate himself from it. It was easy to succumb to the memories and all too often, he would find himself chasing the RABIT, only to be pulled back by the sound of Ten’s voice or the touch of his hand as he reached across the control panel to ground him.

Afterwards, Doyoung would run into an empty hallway at the first chance he got and curl in on himself until the trembling stopped or Ten came to pry him loose, whichever happened first. He would pull Doyoung close and run his fingers through the strands of his hair, over and over until Doyoung relaxed against him.

Now, though—after years of practice—Doyoung knows better. It’s all an exercise in control, really.

_Neural handshake, initiating._

He closes his eyes and dissolves into the drift.

 

When it’s over, he unplugs himself with steady hands, waiting for Ten and Kun to do the same before he steps out of the conn-pod. Below them, a crowd has gathered in the hangar. A cheer rises when they spot the pilots.

In the helmet, Doyoung’s breath sounds loud in his ears. The recycled oxygen inside smells stale, almost stiflingly so, but he waits until they get to the drivesuit room to take it off.

They don’t have to go through decontamination, but it still takes a while for the technicians to put everything away. He waits just long enough for them to strip him down to his circuit suit before slipping out into the empty hallway.

“Doyoung!”

He turns back to see Ten standing in the door. His hair is sticking up in all directions from the helmet, dripping with sweat. He has one hand out, as if to reach out and grab Doyoung’s wrist. Slowly, he lets it fall back to his side.

“Is something wrong?” Doyoung asks.

A shadow of hesitation crosses Ten’s face. It’s such a foreign expression on him that Doyoung forgets he’s supposed to be escaping.

He says, “I saw everything.”

Doyoung presses his lips together, hard.

“Is that really why you left?”

Doyoung looks away. “I don’t want to talk about this right now, Ten. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Not that big of a deal?” A flash of irritation crosses Ten’s face. “Really, Doyoung? This isn’t just something you can deal with on your own.”

Doyoung grits his teeth. “I’m fine, Ten. The drift went fine, we had a stable connection, no complications.”

Ten frowns. “It didn’t go fine, and you know it. You can’t keep bottling everything up and ignoring everything when you go into the drift. Sooner or later you’re going to break, and if that happens in the middle of a fight, you’re not the only one who’s going to get hurt.”

Doyoung squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath.

“I won’t.”

Ten lets out an exasperated huff. “Doyoung, you can’t know that—”

“I _won’t_ ,” he repeats, a little more forcefully. “You're not going to get hurt.”

When he opens his eyes again, Ten’s expression is uncertain. He’s looking at Doyoung like he’s seeing him for the first time all over again, like he doesn’t know what to make of him.

“I need to go,” Doyoung says quietly.

This time, when he turns to walk away, Ten doesn’t try to stop him.

 

\--

 

From the moment he first sets foot on the landing strip in Vladivostok, Doyoung knows: in this world, heroes don’t retire. They die.

By the time Doyoung enters the program, it’s already become clear that they’re fighting a losing war. He’s always been a realist, and he knows the likelihood that he will survive long enough to retire. And then he meets Ten, and the fear becomes a certainty.

“Sometimes I feel bigger than life, when we’re fighting,” Ten tells him in the conn-pod after their first kill, as they’re waiting for the cleanup crew to come find them, “It’s like the Jaeger becomes a part of us when we’re in the drift. Like we are more than ourselves when we’re together.”

The first time he sees Nova Hyperion, Doyoung thinks, _This is the tomb I have built for myself._

“She’s beautiful,” Ten says next to him, “She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Don’t let them turn you into a hero,” Donghyun whispers that first day, as he’s hugging Doyoung goodbye. The Russian winter bites into them, cutting his words off into sharp shards. “Don’t let them take you away from me.”

 

This is what Doyoung remembers:

Cold, colorless water, stretching out in flat waves as far as the eye can see. Even the neon paint of the escape pod dulls in the frosty gray. His fingers are numb as he presses down on the wound, throwing all his weight into it. The mix of seawater and blood pooling at the bottom of the pod sloshes with every wave that jostles them.

Ten’s face is paler than Doyoung has ever seen. He’s so still, his skin is so cold, and he looks so, so small just lying there. Doyoung presses his ear to Ten’s chest just to feel the sluggish beat of his heart.

Nova is long gone, lost to the depths of the sea. The dead Kaiju sank too, leaving only clouds of bright, toxic blood behind. There’s nothing left but Ten, the pod, and the cold, cold sea.

Afterwards, Doyoung will dream about this moment for years.

 

\--

 

Kun raises an eyebrow when Doyoung shows up in the combat room the next morning, but he doesn’t say anything. They go through their warm-ups in silence, and Doyoung finds himself too occupied with sparring for the next two hours to think much about anything else. The familiarity of routine is almost comforting, even if he spends most of it collecting fresh bruises and being knocked into a mat that stinks of old sweat.

It’s not until they’re pulling their shoes back on that Kun speaks.

“Do you want tea?”

He’s got the same expression as always, inscrutable. The only difference today is that now, they’ve been in each other’s brains.

“Sure,” Doyoung says, pulling his laces too tight, “Tea sounds good.”

 

Kun’s room is a little bigger than Doyoung’s. He shares it with two other people, but neither of them are inside when they get there.

“Perks of being a senior engineer,” Kun says when he catches Doyoung eyeing the small table in the corner, two matching metal chairs on either side of it.

“They give you tables for that?” Doyoung says, and Kun laughs.

“I’m kidding. I stole it from one of the breakrooms in K-science.”

The tea collection, extensive as promised, is housed in an assortment of tins on the table. Doyoung sits, watching as Kun pulls out an electric kettle and two mugs from under his bed.

“You can choose whatever you want to drink,” he says.

Doyoung peruses the tea as they wait for the water to boil. His grasp of Chinese characters is shaky at best, and he has to resort to opening each tin and peering inside. Kun answers all of his questions, but otherwise seems satisfied to watch him bumble his way through by himself. He picks one out eventually, and Kun measures out a precise amount for each mug.

Doyoung doesn’t know a lot about tea—he prefers coffee, normally—but it tastes fragrant and delicate, more mild than he was expecting. When he drains the cup, Kun pours him another.

They pass the time in the same silence that permeates their early morning sessions in the combat room. Despite the lack of activity to occupy them, Doyoung finds that he doesn’t feel awkward or stifled. He keeps expecting Kun to bring up the topic of the drift or Ten or some other memory, but he seems content with just sitting and enjoying the tea.

At the end of the hour, they head out—Kun for the hangar and Doyoung for the labs—parting ways with a quiet goodbye in the hallway.

 

\--

 

This is what Doyoung remembers:

“An apple tastes best when someone prepares it for you,” Kun’s father says. He peels it so that the skin comes off in one long, continuous ribbon and cuts it into eighths, arranging it on the plate with the slices are one side, the peel on the other. “The trick is in how you turn it. You have to go slow.”

Kun looks down at the apple nestled in the heart of his palm, its red peel barely scored by the paring knife. Pressing down with his thumb, he begins to turn.

Juice runs down his wrist. The peel breaks, then breaks again. He slices his thumb with a yelp and sticks it in his mouth, licking the blood off the salty pad of his finger.

“Slower,” his father says, and he shows him. “Like this.”

More than any other, this moment lingers in the days after the drift. It’s so strong, so vivid, that Doyoung nearly mistakes for his own at first.

There’s something about the way that it’s framed in Kun’s mind—the way the scene is cast in watery sunlight, the way that it plays gradually, languidly, like a sweet best savored slowly—that makes him feel so full. It reminds Doyoung too much of the way he used to see his own face staring back at him through Ten’s eyes, of the way he had looked like himself, but more.

After all this time, Doyoung finds that he had forgotten what it was like, to feel someone else’s love so warm in his own chest.

 

\--

 

Ten gives Doyoung two days before he comes pounding on his door.

It’s nighttime, late enough that Doyoung is getting ready for bed when he hears the knocking. Ten’s wearing a shirt from their Academy days and old sweats, a pair of glasses perched on his nose. The plastic bag in his hand crinkles when he lifts it, his mouth set in a firm line.

“Help me cut my hair,” he says.

They sit in Doyoung’s bathroom, Doyoung on the closed lid of the toilet and Ten on a short stool between his open legs. He leans back into Doyoung’s lap, unnervingly still as Doyoung fixes the line of his undercut. The silence is heavy, punctured only by the buzz of clippers.

“It’s getting long on top,” Doyoung mutters when he’s done. “Do you want me to fix it?”

He runs a hand through the strands to see the length. Ten shivers, shaking his head.

“I think I’ll keep it like this.”

Doyoung watches as Ten stands to inspect himself in the mirror. He shakes his head so that the hair flops in his eyes and combs it back again, turning from side to side to see it from different angles.

“You know you can quit, right?” Ten says quietly, not looking at him.

Doyoung stills. “What?”

“The program, I mean,” Ten says. “Kun and I can find another co-pilot.”

Doyoung sets the clippers down too hard on the edge of the sink and says, “I’m not quitting, Ten.”

“Doyoung, I know you hate it—”

“I don’t,” Doyoung grits out, “I’m doing this of my own volition—”

“You’re full of shit,” Ten says. He’s looking Doyoung in the eye now, challenging him to lie again. “Tell me what you really want.”

Doyoung swallows. Once again, he finds himself at a loss for words.

When he doesn’t answer, Ten’s face falls. He turns away, grabbing the plastic bag.

“Just promise me you won’t get yourself killed over something that’s not worth it,” he says.

“It’s the right thing,” Doyoung pushes out. “Saving people. It’s the greater good, right?”

Ten pauses by the bathroom door for a moment, thinking. The bag crinkles at his side, swinging gently.

“Yeah,” he says finally, “but that doesn’t mean you have to be the one to die for it.”

 

\--

 

Doyoung knows that Ten’s changed. He watched it and let it happen, over the years, complacent up until the very last moment.

The Ten that he first met had wanted nothing more than to stay alive. Everyone he had reason to live for was already dead. That Ten had hated Doyoung for threatening his spot as number one cadet in their year, had looked at Doyoung from across the combat room like he could crush him to dust if he just stared hard enough.

His Ten is different. His Ten is a friend and devoted partner, someone Doyoung trusts with his life and more. His Ten watches as certain death bears down on them and twists faster Doyoung can comprehend, straight into the jaws of the approaching Kaiju. Doyoung feels it all through the drift, beginning to end—they’re connected up until Nova starts sinking into the ocean and Doyoung has to wrestle Ten out of the mangled rig and into the escape pod—and he knows that Ten isn’t thinking of what will happen to himself in that moment, only what will happen to Doyoung.

This Ten is the one who survives most vividly in his head when Doyoung reaches Nagasaki. He holds on to every memory with an iron grip, revising everything he remembers over and over with nearly obsessive energy, because it is the only way he knows to keep Ten alive. It feels almost disjointed to finally see him again, looking so different from how he had been when Doyoung still knew him. For so long, he had shut out the reality that there existed a Ten that he did not know, a Ten who had moved on without him.

The truth is that for three years, Doyoung mourned him like a dead man, frozen in perfect clarity in the deepest recesses of his brain. Now that he’s here, solid and warm, Doyoung doesn’t know what to do with himself, with this Ten who can touch him again.

 

\--

 

Doyoung can’t sleep.

It’s not the first time he’s spent hours lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling above him, but it’s the first time in a while. He gives up eventually, sitting up and throwing on a jacket.

He’s not wearing enough to go outside. He wanders the base instead, avoiding the hangar and sticking to areas that are more likely to be empty at this time of night. After an hour of aimless walking, he finds himself standing at the drivesuit room, staring at the only other person inside.

Kun’s sitting on the ground surrounded by the scattered pieces of his own suit. He has the biggest piece in his lap, fiddling with the screws and bending the plates every so often to test the flexibility.

“You sure you should be doing that without your J-tech’s permission?”

Kun looks up, his lips curling into a wry smile when he spots Doyoung. “Guanheng doesn’t mind. I’m the one who taught him everything he knows.”

Doyoung leans against the doorway. “Can’t sleep?”

Kun nods. “What about you?”

“Nightmares.”

“I see,” Kun says. He shifts to the side, patting the empty space next to him. “Keep me company?”

They sit in silence for a while, Kun tinkering quietly as Doyoung watches on. He doesn’t know enough about drivesuits to offer any help—he can barely even name the tools in Kun’s hand. Instead, he curls his knees to his chest and relaxes against the wall, letting rhythmic sound of Kun working wash over him.

It’s strange now, being with Kun and feeling like he should know him so much better than he really does. Kun isn’t the first person Doyoung’s met twice before—once in Ten’s memories, once in his own—but he’s never been this affected by the experience.

Everything about him is new and old, Doyoung’s and Ten’s. He looks at Kun and sees a ghost of affection, dragging against the edges of his vision like a lingering shadow. It bothers him that the two images merge at times, one following the other so closely that he can barely distinguish which belongs to himself.

“Hey,” Kun says eventually, not looking up, “Do you remember the first time you drifted with Ten?”

Doyoung hugs his knees tighter. “Yeah.”

“What was it like?”

“You’ve been inside my head,” Doyoung points out, “Don’t you already know?”

“Sometimes, you have to talk about something out loud to properly remember it,” Kun sets down his screwdriver and picks up a smaller one.

Doyoung sighs and rests his chin on the heel of his hand. Kun continues to work patiently, waiting.

“We hated each other. Neither of us could believe that the two of us could ever be friends, let alone drift-compatible.”

“And what, did you have some sort of life-changing experience when you connected?”

“Not really,” Doyoung admits. “It was clear that we would make a good team, though. And it got a lot harder to hate him afterwards. What about you?”

“It was life-changing,” Kun says with a small smile, “I’d never come close to that kind of connection before. It was like I had only been living half a life before.”

Doyoung nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I see.”

They fall back into silence for a bit as Kun finishes up whatever adjustments he was making. Doyoung can’t tell the difference in how the plates bend compared to before, but Kun looks satisfied when he stops.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we drifted?” Kun asks as they’re putting everything away. “I mean, just the two of us? What that would be like?”

When Doyoung looks back, Kun is staring at him, head cocked. There’s something about the look in his eyes that makes the lump grow bigger in Doyoung’s throat.

“I’m not sure,” he says. It’s not much of an answer, but Kun smiles anyway.

“Me neither,” he says and goes back to hanging up the drivesuit. “We should try it sometime.”

Doyoung looks down at the toolbox in his hands.

“Okay,” he agrees.

 

\--

 

They get their first assignment two weeks later. Insurrector is Category IV and while two Jaegers should be enough, the Los Angeles Shatterdome still sends out a request for backup.

They’re only supposed to be there if something goes wrong, Doyoung knows, but he can feel his chest pound with apprehension as they stand on the shore, watching Striker Eureka chase the Kaiju down the beach. In the end, it falls under a volley of missiles, the weight of its body groaning as it topples over into the city. Crimson Typhoon doesn’t even get within firing range.

Afterwards, in the Los Angeles Shatterdome, Doyoung lets a team of unfamiliar technicians decontaminate him and remove his suit. He stands in the middle of the room, lost, until a hand wraps around his wrist and tugs him towards the door.

“Doyoung,” Ten says softly once they’re outside, where there are fewer prying eyes, “Your hand’s shaking.”

Doyoung looks down at where it’s clasped in Ten’s. It’s been a long time since he was this bad after a drift.

“I’m fine,” he croaks.

“You’re really not,” Ten drops his hand and reaches up, “May I?”

Doyoung nods, and Ten tangles his fingers in Doyoung’s hair, scratching gently at the base of his neck. The action is soothing and familiar, and Doyoung can’t help but lean into him and close his eyes.

After so long, Ten feels solid and warm.

 

Later, when they get back to Hong Kong, Doyoung slips out of his room and retreats to the quiet of the hangar. It’s empty aside from one or two mechanics on the floor, and no one notices him taking a seat in the middle of the catwalk, across from Crimson’s giant yellow eye. He rests his arms on the guardrail and lets his feet dangle out into the emptiness.

“I suppose you’ll be as good a tomb as any other,” he whispers, testing the words in his mouth.

She doesn’t answer, just returns his gaze, silent and proud.

 

\--

 

This is what he remembers:

He’s seventeen years old, standing on a sidewalk two blocks down from the local elementary school. A crosswalk stretches across the asphalt before him, its stripes freshly painted white. He’s got his backpack slung over one shoulder, and the laces on his left shoe are coming undone.

People are shouting. Sirens are wailing. Buildings are falling.

A pair of tiny hands catches his arm before he can step onto the street, nails digging into his flesh.

“You can’t go yet, ge,” the boy says solemnly. “You have to wait for the light to turn red.”

 

“Four strikes marks a win.”

There’s something reassuring about fighting in the combat room, stripped down to nothing but yourself and your partner. Vulnerable, but not defenseless.

He shifts his grip on his staff, and bows. Across from him, Doyoung mirrors the action. They straighten with matching glares.

“May the best man win,” Doyoung says snidely, and irritation curls deep in Ten’s gut.

It ends in a draw this time, too.

 

There’s a man in the hangar. He’s got a metal arm and fire in his eyes. For two months, he sat on the catwalk, watching the Jaegers like he could burn them all to ashes if he just stared hard enough. He stands in front of Kun now, his mouth set in a trembling line.

“I’m the new drivesuit technician, starting today,” he says, “My name is Ten.”

 

He’s treading in a pool at night, wet clothes dragging against his skin, hair plastered to his forehead. The water pulls him in and holds him close. It’s warm.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” A boy stands at the poolside, his eyebrows pulled down low over his brow.

“Don’t be a stick in the mud,” he replies, leaning back. There’s something so soothing about the way that the water surrounds him.

“I’ll report you to the Marshal and they’ll kick you out, I swear,” the boy threatens.

“Come on, Doyoung, live a little,” he swims to the edge and stretches his arms forward invitingly. “Swim with me?”

Despite his protests, the boy lets himself be lured in, his shirt billowing out around him like a flower. His hand is warm when it wraps around Ten’s wrist, warmer than the water.

 

The Jaeger is red. Red like fire, like fresh blood. He watches them paint over it, stroke by stroke, until all the red is gone. Her core stares at him the entire time, an unblinking, all-seeing eye.

“She’s beautiful,” he says when they’re done, and it’s true.

She’s still as beautiful as the day she was built.

 

He wakes with a name on the tip of his tongue.

“Doyoung,” he says, his voice still raspy with sleep, to remind himself.

 

\--

 

“You’re sure we’re allowed to be here,” Doyoung says for the seventh time as he settles on the floor of the K-science labs, legs crossed underneath him. He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, watching as Kun unpacks the Pons system and spreads the parts around them.

“I have permission to use all of this equipment, don’t worry,” Kun says calmly for the seventh time. “Besides, even if I didn’t, no one would report us for it. Everyone hates Dr. Geiszler.”

He seems to know what he’s doing, even if the Pons system looks flimsier than what they have built in the Jaegers. The helmet that Kun hands him is clearly made from spare parts and barely fits the shape of Doyoung's head.

“This is your last chance to back out,” Kun says once everything’s set up and his hand is hovering above the switch. “We don’t have to do this.”

Doyoung worries his lip between his teeth.

“I want to,” he says. “I just want us to try again. Just us.”

Something in Kun’s expression softens.

“Okay,” he says, and flips the switch.

The first memory is familiar.

Doyoung had watched the footage in the grainy screen of Donghyun’s laptop mere months ago, sitting in their tiny room in Nagasaki. Had held his breath as Huo Da ripped the brothers from Crimson’s conn-pod, tore the heart straight from her chest.

Kun hadn’t been in the Jaeger either, but in that moment, it was as if Huo Da had torn his heart out too, had tossed him into the ocean and let him sink, bleeding blood and bright poison into the cold water. In the drift, Doyoung feels the pinpricks of Sicheng’s grip on his arm, the numbness that spreads from his toes, and through it all, he hears the beeping of the distress signal, steady as the pulse of blood rushing in his ears.

 _Don’t chase_.

The memory grips him, but he lets go, lets it slip past like water through his fingers, and the next one takes him, each one faster than the last.

He sees the Shatterdome at the height of its former glory, watches the world crash into ruins from his home in Fujian, kisses Ten for the first time in the bowels of a decommissioned Jaeger and feels the rightness of it thicken in his chest. A thousand times, he climbs the stairs to the catwalk late at night just to stare up at Crimson’s half-hollowed body, to see her fully in her worn-down, torn-up majesty. She returns his gaze in silence, his steadiest companion throughout the lonely years.

When he finally opens his eyes again, he is both Doyoung, looking at Kun, and Kun, looking at Doyoung.

_So? What do you think?_

He watches as his own smile grows on Kun’s lips, and the two images overlap.

 

\--

 

He finds Ten on the catwalk again, this time late enough that the hangar is nearly empty. He doesn’t look up as Doyoung walks towards him, stopping only a few steps away.

“How often do you come here?”

Ten rests a cheek on his palm. “Just sometimes, when I want some peace and quiet.”

“Wanna spar?”

Ten glances at him. “Right now?”

“Yeah,” Doyoung nods, extending his hand, “You and me, in the combat room. Just like old times.”

Ten purses his lips and stares at him.

“Sure,” he finally says, letting Doyoung pull him to his feet, “Just like old times.”

 

A nervous tension runs through Doyoung’s limbs as he warms up. It’s been so long since he saw Ten swing a staff, and he almost forgot how beautiful he looked doing it. Almost.

Ten fights just like he remembers. Of course, the balance of his weight is entirely different and he relies more on kicks than he used to, but he still moves with the same fluidity as before, like he’s dancing.

He catches Doyoung under his guard once, then sweeps him clean off his feet the next round. Doyoung retaliates by disarming him twice, laughing when Ten scowls at him in annoyance the second time.

After so long, they’re still evenly matched. Years ago, it would have frustrated Doyoung to no end but now, he can only feel relief that they’re still compatible, that their connection isn’t gone yet.

As they’re sitting on the edge of the mat, catching their breaths, Doyoung leans back on his hands and says, “I left because I was scared.”

Ten stops tying his shoes.

He takes a deep breath. “I thought that if I left, you would stop acting so reckless.”

Ten looks down. “That’s stupid.”

“I know. You’re dumb whether I’m there or not.”

Ten covers his eyes with his hand. “Shut up.”

“I’m still scared,” Doyoung says, and Ten’s face falls, “But I’m not quitting. I won’t leave you behind this time.”

For a moment, Ten doesn’t reply, and Doyoung’s heart climbs up into his throat. But then he’s shuffling closer and throwing his entire body weight into Doyoung, hiding his face in his neck.

He loops his arm around Doyoung’s neck, squeezing almost too tight, and says, choked, “I missed you.”

Doyoung lets out a deep breath, shaky and loud.

“Me too,” he says, and squeezes back, “I missed you too.”

 

\--

 

At the end of August, Donghyun arrives in Hong Kong.

Doyoung rushes him the moment he steps foot off the helicopter, nearly bowling him over. His laugh turns into a wheeze as Doyoung envelopes him in a bone-crushing hug, but he manages to throw an arm around Doyoung and slap him on the back.

“What, did you miss me that much?” he says when he gets his breath back.

“Yes,” Doyoung says honestly, taking one of his bags, and the teasing smile slips off Donghyun’s face, replaced with something smaller and more genuine.

“I missed you too, little brother,” he says, throwing an arm around Doyoung’s shoulders and pulling him close.

“I probably won’t move here,” he says later, as they’re standing the catwalk, leaning on the railing so the walkway isn’t clogged. “K-science doesn’t have the money to keep most of its research division.”

Doyoung frowns, “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“There’s still plenty of jobs out there for Kaiju research,” Donghyun says. “Maybe I’ll move back to Seoul. There’s a lab over there that’s already reached out to me.”

“Yeah?” Doyoung’s throat clogs. “That’s a good idea. You haven’t been back since we left.”

“You could come with me.”

Doyoung gazes out into the hangar. Crimson stares back. When he looks back at his brother, there’s resignation on Donghyun’s face, like he already knows.

“I think I’ll stick around a little longer,” Doyoung says, “They need me here.”

 

\--

 

Come September, the apples in the market grow round and ripe. Kun buys a bag and slices them on the floor of his room, fending off Ten’s wandering hand until he’s done. They eat them straight off the cutting board, first the slices, then the peels.

Later, after Ten falls asleep on the bed, Doyoung takes the last apple and the paring knife. He smiles when Kun raises an eyebrow at him.

“I’ll do it for you,” he says quietly, so as not to wake Ten.

The knife feels clunky in his hands, but he goes slow. The peel comes off in pieces, falling to the board one by one. When all the lopsided slices are cut, Doyoung holds one out for Kun to eat, shivering when his breath grazes Doyoung’s fingers. After what feels like an eternity, Kun straightens and chews.

As Doyoung watches, a memory bubbles to the surface: one rainy night of many in the J-techs’ quarters, curled up together on the bottom bunk to escape the dripping leaks. The scrape of Ten’s stubble scratches at his neck, thin fingers curl under the hem of his shirt, and the damp heat of Ten’s breath slows with every exhale, evening into sleep. They’re cold and wet and should be miserable, but Kun’s memory is smudged soft. Even in the brief flash that Doyoung sees, fondness seeps into every crevice.

Unwittingly, Doyoung’s eyes trace the path that Ten’s fingers had taken up Kun’s jaw, lingering at the place where it stopped, palm cupped to cheek. He follows it with his own hand, brushing over the thin skin with his thumb until a flush surfaces under his touch.

He wonders: if he dug into Kun’s brain—scooped the memories out like flesh from a grapefruit—would he find this moment in there, too? Every piece of him dipped in honey and amber, preserved perfectly in sweet affection?

“What are you thinking about?” Kun asks, leaning into his touch.

Doyoung swallows. “You’ll remember me too, right?”

Kun seems to understand, realization dawning in his eyes. His expression becomes solemn and he turns his head, pressing his lips to Doyoung’s palm.

“I will,” he promises, “For as long as I live.”

 

\--

 

By December, Hong Kong is the only Shatterdome still in operation. Doyoung watches as one by one, the Jaegers are flown in when their home bases close down. They fill the empty hangar like silent, unmoving sentinels.

There’s whispers of the director of the Jaeger restoration program arriving on base. Doyoung’s met the Marshal’s daughter only once or twice, but he recognizes her when she walks onto the landing strip, black umbrella in hand. A week later, they airlift in an old Jaeger, Mark-III. _Gipsy Danger_ , it reads on the crates that hold its parts.

On the first day of the new year, Shaolin Rogue falls off the grid off the coast of New Guinea and never resurfaces. Doyoung and Ten stand in the middle of mission control and hold Kun’s hands from start to finish, until the connection severs and the sound of the conn-pod alarms finally cuts off. Kun clenches their fingers tight enough to hurt.

Afterwards, when they’ve dropped Kun off in his room and watched him close the door, Ten catches Doyoung by the sleeve.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“What?”

“Kun’s never been to Japan, either.”

Doyoung’s breath hitches in his throat. When Ten finally looks at him, there is nothing but sincerity in his eyes. He reaches out and catches Doyoung’s hand, drawing it towards himself.

“We should go together,” he says, “when the war’s over. You can show us Nagasaki, take us to see the sights. How does that sound?”

His lips are trembling as he speaks, and he’s squeezing Doyoung’s hand a little too hard. Years ago, Doyoung might not have noticed, but he sees it now, sees the desperation clinging to every word.

“I’d love that,” he says, curling his fingers so their hands are laced together. “It sounds perfect.”

 

\--

 

At the start of spring, Doyoung packs all of his things into two cardboard boxes and moves them to a new room down the hall, only a little bit bigger than his old one.

It takes a bit of negotiation and a lot of arguing to decide who gets which bed and where everything goes on the walls. Afterwards, they crowd into Ten’s tiny bottom bunk, moving carefully as it creaks under their combined weight.

Ten throws his legs over Kun’s lap and rests his head against Doyoung’s chest, and they listen to the steady drip of rainwater for a while, staring up at the ceiling above. Doyoung stays awake just long enough to watch Ten’s head grow heavy and Kun slump against his shoulder, mouth going slack. Their chests rise and fall together, smooth and steady like waves on a tranquil sea.

He closes his eyes, slowing his breath to match, and falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back from kind-of-hiatus!!
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/puerhs) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/puerhs)


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